


Hey Jealous Lover Ch.7 of 16

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Jealous Brian, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don’t own me. I’m not just one of your many toys." ©Madara/White<br/>Takes place after Ep.208 and before Ep.217</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Jealous Lover Ch.7 of 16

_“If you are keeping score then you are bound to win_ _a ring side seat at the main event.”_ _©Fair to Midland_

       Round One of Taylor vs. Kinney didn’t have a chance to begin. No sooner had Adam beat a hasty retreat than the bell rang, not to signal the start of their championship match, but rather the thankful arrival of their dinner.   
  
       After paying for the food, Justin shut the door with a clang and a thud. The vibration reverberated through the loft like a mini-earthquake—or a prelude to one.  
  
      “Dinner’s here,” he snapped, roughly emptying the bags on the table and throwing them in the trash. He made a quick detour to the refrigerator, grabbed two beers, then childishly put one back. _Fuck it! Let him get his own!_

       He tried to wrap his head around what happened but the longer he reflected, the more he tingled to strike back. Brian had angered him many times, even purposefully, but never like this. What gave him the right to act so fucking territorial? So he found Adam interesting. All right, fucking gorgeous. Big deal! Nothing worse and much less than the shit Brian pulled. If the situation weren’t so precarious, he’d explode into laughter. His mother would be ecstatic about his curiosity in Adam. Although Jennifer and Brian had negotiated an uneasy truce after the bashing, she never missed an opportunity to drop not-so-subtle hints, even in front of him, that Justin should be more involved with friends his own age. To make matters worse, Brian would jokingly agree.  
  
       To the casual observer, the tongue-in-cheek comments were simplistically innocuous. But to Justin, it reinforced a nagging concern that if an argument went too far, Brian would tell him once again to pack his shit and get the hell out. Worse, he wouldn’t go after him now, grateful to be rid of his teenage burden at last. He desperately wanted to ignore those thoughts, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the light-hearted words hid a multitude of truths. He’d been around Brian long enough to know he never totally tipped his hand. He always kept a card or two close to his vest for a win or an escape, depending on the circumstance. Two different people, he thought—one who wanted to be involved, who wanted to care and the one who stood in the shadows with cool detachment, wondering if he’d have to play his trump card.   
  
       He threw an irritated glance toward the bare-chested man sprawled on the sofa. With one leg flung over the back and the other on the floor indecently stretching the fabric of his jeans, he was the epitome of decadent nonchalance. Justin gave a mental shake of his head and wondered if this dinner would be their Last Supper.

                                                                                                   * * * *  
  
       When Justin’s brittle voice sliced through his consciousness too easily, Brian knew he wasn’t close to being intoxicated.The last thing he wanted was to eat dinner with him, to pretend everything was all right when it wasn’t. What he wanted was to finish the bottle, go to Babylon and find a halfway talented mouth to suck him off before the main event that would have the nameless trick shouting to anyone who’d listen, “Brian Kinney fucked me!”  
  
       His thoughts had a mind of their own, however, and shifted mercilessly to their negotiated “rules”— _when I come home, I’ll also be doing exactly what I want to do, coming home to you—_ and to Deb’s insightful comment, _that little shit has somehow gotten under the wire. Admit it. You love him._ Right! He saw enough “love” when he was a kid to last a lifetime, saw it with the munchers and saw it with the dickless fags who tried to feel respectable with a fucking piece of paper. But they would never be like everyone else because they weren’t. They were queers. It would always be about dick, no matter how vehemently they protested or refused to admit it.  
  
_“What’s love got to do with it? What’s love, but a second hand emotion._ _Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?”_ _©Britten/Lyle_  
  
       Love? He fucking didn’t think so. What the fuck did love have to do with it? His concern about Justin had nothing to do with love. Just because he maybe felt guilty, still had fucking nightmares, still saw all that blood _...._ He couldn’t understand how he allowed himself to get involved in a situation that continually pushed him away from the life that defined who he was and constantly pulled him toward a lifestyle that could mean the end of Brian Kinney as he knew him. He threw down the last of his third drink in one swallow and grimaced as the heat coated his insides. Dragging himself off the sofa to eat a dinner he didn’t want to eat, he wondered what the fuck he was doing.

                                                                  
                                                                                                   _* * * *_  
  
        For some inexplicable reason, silence has its own unique but blessed rhythm. Conversely, the human brain hates the vacuum of nothingness. On this particular evening, the blessed and hated intertwined in a symbiotic relationship of embattled quiet.  
  
        Although both men possessed a masterful knowledge of the English language and could be verbose when the mood hit or the situation warranted, neither wanted to be the first to break the awkwardness, to relinquish control—one over outer stoicism, the other over inner anger. Each dug his heels deeper into the silent sands, further entrenching his position.   
  
                             _“Suffice to say there's a time and a place,_ _so I wait for the tug-of-war and who you'll pull for_  
  _B etween you and me from point A to B is a fine line,_ _that burns at both our good ends.”_ _©Fair to Midland_

       Justin wished they could talk about the situation maturely. Hell, he wished they could talk about _anything_ important without Brian shutting down and running off to Babylon or the Baths. They’d had a couple of discussions during their time together, one after the bashing and another when they hammered out the so-called parameters of whatever they were. But in his opinion, that wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. He supposed the rarity of those occasions was what made them so special. But he would gladly give up their importance for less meaningful but more frequent talks, instead of sweeping shit under the rug until some disaster forced them to open up.  
  
        He was already seated, napkin on his lap, when Brian sauntered to the table. Shrewdly noticing the absence of one beer, he grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator without a word, opened it and slammed it on the table.  
  
        Justin steamed and Brian stewed, perfect accompaniments to a Thai dinner eaten in an atmosphere that could put Shakespeare’s boil and trouble toiling witches to shame. They were a study in contrasts. Justin couldn’t stop fidgeting and repeatedly stabbed his food with an unrelenting fork, imagining it was Brian’s head. He didn't even notice that he chewed more forcefully than necessary. Brian, on the other hand, looked as if he didn't have a care in the world. Long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he balanced the bottle on his thigh with one hand while the other dragged a fork across his plate in mindless circles. The sound grated on Justin's nerves like nails on a blackboard, the cords of his neck tightening as he continued to wreak havoc on his dinner.  
  
        Even though his “Early Warning System For All Things Justin” had intuitively kicked into gear, Brian couldn’t help but smirk. “I don’t think you have to destroy the food to eat it,” he drawled.  
  
        Justin’s head shot up. “What?”  
  
       “I _said_ I don’t think you—”  
  
       “I heard you!” Justin threw his fork on the table.   
  
        Brian shot him a look of feigned innocence. “Just trying to make pleasant dinner conversation, Sunshine. You know, trying to be polite.”    
  
       “Well, fucking try harder!”   
  
        Brian heaved a dramatic sigh. He didn't want to do this now. He didn’t want to do it at all, but Justin would never let it go, needing to have some deep and meaningful conversation that would either send him to sleep or out the door. Emotional teenage angst was exhausting. He polished off his beer in long gulps—definitely not intoxicated enough—and folded his napkin with exaggerated movements. Feeling the fire of blue eyes, he raised a questioning brow.  
  
        His balloon of rage expanding to epic proportions, Justin stared with incredulity. “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
        Brian placed his napkin on the table, the amusement that had softened his angular features displaced by chilly harshness. “I thought that before we got into our pissing contest, it would be proper to dispense with the niceties first. Surely, your dignified upbringing can appreciate that.”  
  
      “You’re a shit, you know that?” Justin scrambled to his feet, overturning the chair, and stood defiantly in front of Brian. “You were fucking rude to Adam!”  
  
        They glared at each other with hostility and mistrust until Brian spoke _._ “Rude?” Now it was his turn to stay in control. “I don’t think so. I think I was more than accommodating under the circumstances.”  
  
       “What circumstances?”

        A flinty gaze held Justin in place. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because, given the opportunity, he wouldn’t have thought twice about fucking you _in my fucking loft!_ Or that _you_ wouldn’t have given a second thought about fucking him _in my fucking loft!”_  
  
        Although he flinched at the accusation, Justin struck back with venom. “You’re a fine one to talk! You’re the one who says I should spend more time with ‘kids’ my own age. So here you go! I like him! Big fucking deal!” He gave a humorless laugh. “What’s the matter, are you jealous?”  
  
        Brian snickered. “You can’t be serious!”  
  
       “Oh, I most definitely am!”  
  
       “Don’t flatter yourself.”  
  
        Justin's eyes flashed devilishly. “He’s as good looking as you, hot actually, and you resent it, maybe even feel threatened by it. Or _—_ ” He took a step back and with careful aim, taunted, “Maybe, Mr. Kinney, _you_ have a thing for _him_.”   
  
        Brian counted to ten before rising from his chair. He closed the gap between them with measured steps until he stood mere inches from Justin. Meeting his gaze, he leaned in, his breath tickling the pale neck, and whispered in a voice that radiated power despite its softness, “The blond, blue-eyed twinkie ass isn’t my type.”  
  
        He whirled around, grabbed his jacket and strode out, the electricity of his words trailing behind him, burning Justin with their sting.  
  
                                             **“You never hold trump cards, you know—I always do.”** G.Eliot _“Silas Marner”_

 

continue here: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/1302436>


End file.
